


Brother

by nugatories



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 14:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nugatories/pseuds/nugatories
Summary: There's a missing link in Futaba's world, but she refuses to have these questions left unanswered for any longer.





	Brother

**Author's Note:**

> i took a fan theory and i ran with it cause it's my favorite thing ever

Mom knew lots of men in politics, and honestly, I didn’t like most of them. I don’t know how she knew them, but the little knowledge I had of my biological father led me to believe he was one of them.

Obviously there was Sojiro, but he doesn’t do that anymore. But he might know who my real dad is. I never asked him about it. I don’t know if I really want to know. What would I do with that knowledge, even? Maybe I’d feel more whole or something, but I can’t say the desire is too strong.

There were bits and pieces of my past I held onto. I had spent a long time isolated in my room after Mom died, learning programming and teaching myself tech stuff. I became enveloped into that geeky, nerdy crap I fondly look back on. There was this one anime I watched with a team of superheroes; all different types of people coming together with their powers to fend off evil. I never anticipated I'd end up like them one day, but this isn’t about being a Phantom Thief. One of the characters, this tall, lanky girl with gorgeous dark hair and looks that could kill, was one I found myself actually relating to. Not physically-wise, obviously, but rather her backstory. She had this whole giant complex about her dead parents and a long lost friend from childhood. She grew up alone, by herself, but always recalled having this friend with her when she was little. They would play in fields of flowers, by lakes, and around long lawns with plenty of space to roam. I felt this part of her was within me, too. All that time by myself, thinking, thinking, thinking, I remembered something. But I had to clarify, first.

I started going through old photo albums. The pictures were a little bad in quality, but they gave me faces, and some were labeled with dates. This was one of the albums Mom had hidden away outside her office, and when Sojiro came to take me in, he brought it with him. It had lots of photos of him and Mom, but they were blurry and sometimes had little fingers over the lens, so I could only assume younger me was the one who took them. I had never seen most of these ever before, and I started to fear I was going to cry.

There was this whole section of photos I typically wouldn’t really understand, but this concept--this revelation of mine--led me to believe that I could possibly be provided with answers here. After my baby photos, my young mother, her research, Sojiro, some pet pictures, and just homely things, there was this series of a dozen or so photos. I was a toddler in them, with long dark hair that was messy but straight, and big brown eyes that looked at Mom with admiration and innocence. There was a woman with light brown hair standing next to Mom in some of these photos. She had these bright auburn eyes, and she was a very pretty woman. Standing next to mom made her incomparably more glitzy and, well, “out there”. The photo in particular had them together, laughing over coffee. They had sad looks in their eyes, despite the smiles. I know Mom was sad, deep down. I don’t know why. Stress, I understood. Frustration, I understood. She had her work, and it was difficult for her to manage, I understood! This underlying sadness, which I once took for hidden hatred towards me, was truly not directed at me. But she never lived to tell me why. I guess I’m at fault for not asking Sojiro about that, either.

The next photo was of toddler me and a little kid, maybe two or three years older than me. He looked partly foreign. He was significantly taller, probably by a foot or so, but I was always very tiny, so it’s just likely he was averaged sized for his age. He was holding my soft, wrinkly hand in his, looking up at the camera that was taking this photo with his own big, auburn eyes, just like the woman Mom was with in the other picture. I was clinging onto his arm, hiding shyly behind his shoulder. He had short light hair, and wore a tiny, colorful blazer and shorts, like an odd school uniform of sorts for a very young child.

There was a caption written below this one, with a date, too. It read, “Siblings, April 25 2004.”

Siblings. 

I began to cry.

There was no other explanation for this than I had someone else out there. Just like that superhero girl--someone was out there. Someone who remembered me. Someone who was my brother.

Or, half brother, I’d assume. The woman with Mom looked an awful lot like him.

Then--she must know who my dad is!

Sojiro has seen these photos before. He must know who she is, or who my dad is, maybe, just maybe. The terror within me, the fear of asking began to rise in my gut. 

_ Will he judge me for asking? Am I being selfish? _

I couldn’t do this to myself. I couldn’t talk myself down like this. It was unfair to me. I’ve learned better than to do that.

I fixed my appearance just a tid and left Sojiro’s house. I walked down the local streets, seeing new and old sights, all familiar in one way or another. That thrifty shop with the elderly workers, the secondhand clothing store I used to get my oversized shirts from, and even the grocery store that always smelled faintly of meats and cheeses. It was nostalgic for a place I rarely saw until this past year.

Leblanc swung open easily, and its sweet bell chimed at my entrance. The place was empty, per usual. But not even Akira was there. He left a few months ago to head home. He was more like a brother to me than this alleged “brother” I had out there, somewhere. I missed him a lot. Not a day went by when I started to regret not meeting him sooner, or when I start to ponder when he’ll visit again. Even Morgana was in my memory. Like a cat brother of mine. But it never filled this lonely hole in my heart, that maybe there’s more for me out there.

Sojiro looked at me from behind the bar counter. “Oh, good afternoon, Futaba,” He greeted me, “Did you need something? A coffee, perhaps?”

I pouted, feeling my lower lip quiver in anxiety. I tried to speak, but all that came out what nonsensical blubbering.

“Woah, wait, hold on,” Sojiro muttered, his eyes widening at the sight of my state. He walked out from behind the counter and came over to me, placing his hand on my shoulder and upper arm. “What’s wrong?  
“D-Do...be honest with me. You’ll tell me the truth, right?”

He hesitated, but for what reason I don’t know why. He never really lied, he just withheld information, I guess. That was his type. “Yes,” He eventually responded, “Whatever it is, I’ll tell you the truth.”

“Do I have...a brother, out there?”

His hand dropped to his side, and he backed up a step from me. He sat down on one of the stools of the counter and rotated it so his knees were beneath the bar itself. He rested his head in his palms, and his elbows were on the wood counter. He was gripping his hair, or what remained of it in his old man state, as I liked to call it. He exhaled deeply, and composed himself before he was able to speak to me again. But I stood patiently, trying to keep my nerves, fears, and excitement within me. 

“I knew someday you’d have suspicions,” Sojiro uttered, “But for the day to come so soon…”

He abandoned his state and swiveled around to look me in the eyes. “Yes, Futaba. You have a half-brother.”

“A...half-brother…” I repeated, my head spinning violently. “So, the photos weren’t falsely labeled…”

“You found them, huh? To know now you were going through my belongings...just kidding.”

“Do you know who he is?”

Sojiro pursed his lips, deep in thought about something. He finally replied, “Not really. I couldn’t provide you with the kid’s name, but I knew his mother a little. Well, I knew _ of _ her. We never formally met. She only came up twice in conversations between your mother and I. Once, when we were discussing you and your friend- er, brother there in the pictures, and another a short while later when we discovered she had died.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. Her name was, ah, I think Yvonne Hamaguchi. Her first name was something foreign like that. I’m sure I could find it written somewhere, but I’m almost positive that was her name. She was a very pretty woman, I don’t think I’d forget the name to go with her looks.”

“Yvonne...Hamaguchi…sounds familiar.”

“You might’ve heard of her before. One second.”

Sojiro got up and walked upstairs to the attic. I could hear him going through old boxes, muttering curses to himself, before coming down with a rolled up newspaper. He unraveled the thin rope around it and plopped it on the counter. It furled to reveal a date--November 12, 2004--and the headline that read: “Shibuya’s infamous Hamaguchi found dead at 24, Police say suicide likely”. Below it were two photos of her, with the subtitles: “Yvonne Hamaguchi, former aspiring idol, pregnant at 17”, and “Hamaguchi at 23, seen with her child in Ogikubo having dinner”. The child’s face was blurred beyond recognition, but the clothes looked of a similar style to some of those in the private pictures I found at Sojiro’s.

“These were the papers released after she died. She was found dead at her own home, while her kid was off at school. She gained traction as a teenager because she was a pretty, half-French girl who wanted to be a famous idol here. She really blew up, though, when she was found to be pregnant out of wedlock, as a minor, and with no boyfriend or anything in her life. She carried the child to term, gave birth, and was subsequently harassed for it by the traditional folks of Tokyo. She was no longer the pure idol she wanted to be, but rather some ‘tainted’ woman of sin, or something like that. It was madness.

“But she found refuge with your mother, albeit years after she gave birth. Yvonne suffered with the harassment for four years before coming across Wakaba. Yvonne was battered emotionally, barely holding on, and had dealt with more assault, threats, and this incessant inability to find a job or a place to live long term. Everyone knew who she was, and in a world ruled by the old, conservative types of people, they wanted nothing to do with this ‘loose’ woman. But your mother ended up in the same situation, though she was in a less dire state afterwards. Yvonne would come to see your mother, and take her son with her. They would let you two play together while they chatted, already having so much in common.”

I remembered none of Yvonne, or her son, or any of these moments from my supposed youth, but it felt right knowing that it did, indeed, occur. I was so engrossed with what Sojiro was saying that I had yet to notice how I was crying in the most bittersweet fashion possible, torn between two opposing emotions.

“They found out that they were both impregnated by the same man, so yes, he’s your brother. That was the biggest surprise to me, but when I inquired Wakaba about who the father was, she refused to answer me. I don’t know the answer, but I’d be kidding if I said I didn’t have glaring suspicions.”

“Who do you suspect?”

Sojiro just shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. Just know that it’s the truth. The public never found the father, but they never really cared because the women weren’t married to him. Eventually, it got to be too much for Yvonne, and she...well...she did this. Unfortunately, Wakaba informed me after her death that she couldn’t take in Yvonne’s son, with you to take care of and her own work, so she sent the kid off to be taken in by foster homes, and she never heard from him again. Maybe he felt betrayed, but I have no evidence either way. I don’t know who he is or where he went, but...for your sake, I hope he’s okay.”

My father was probably a politician. I always had that notion within me. She knew many of them. Maybe that’s why. But there were many of them, and whether or not he was dead was something unknown to me.

“I don’t really care about who my father is, but I want to find my brother.”

“Good luck, Futaba. He could be anywhere right now, you know. He’s not a kid anymore.”

“I’ll manage, I know it. I’m...gonna go see someone who might know a thing or two.”

Sojiro sighed, “I won’t stop you. But be careful. You might learn something you can’t unlearn.”

I almost didn’t hear that last part, as I was already out the door and headed towards a friend’s place.

It was summer vacation, and I knew Makoto Nijima would be home for it from college. I went up to the house she used to share with Sae, and knocked on the door. It was a decently sized place for one mostly maintained by a single woman working for herself as a prosecutor.

Makoto answered the door. “Futaba!” She exclaimed with a smile, “Why didn’t you text me and tell me you were coming over? Come in, come in!”

She opened the door for me and I walked in. The house smelled of pasta or something similar. I noticed something boiling on the stove.

“I was just making dinner, did you want some?”

“No, thanks. I, uh, had to ask you something. About politicians. I figured you might know more than anyone else. You or Sae, possibly, considering your connections.”

She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head a little bit. “Well, I do. What is it you had to ask me?” She asked me as she moved to focus her attention on her bowl of noodles as well.

I began to explain to her the photos, and about Yvonne Hamaguchi, and about my mother, and my brother, and our unknown father. She was listening silently, but intently--I could tell. I finished my tale with a huff, and Makoto gave herself a few seconds or process everything before turning off the stove and facing me.

“Sis!” She called out, “I’m going out for a little bit, can you please finish dinner? It’s on the counter.”

“You got it,” We heard from another room. Makoto led me by the wrist outside and to her car.

“Futaba, I have answers for you, but I’m going to take you somewhere first. I think it’s better for you to find the truth yourself rather than to hear it from me.”

Confused but intrigued, I merely nodded and went along with what she was saying. I hopped in the passenger seat and we took off down the suburban roads right outside of Tokyo.

We drove for about ten minutes in silence, except for the radio, which was playing soft pop music. The sky was fading from its blue to an orange-pink, and though there were few clouds, gentle raindrops rolled down the windshield. Makoto went further and further away from the city, before slowing down outside a neighborhood of older, small houses. She parked her car on the side of the road and got out, ushering me to follow. I stepped out to see her plucking an umbrella from her trunk and opening it, even though the rain wasn’t bad at all. I walked beneath it with her, and we sauntered in silence to a house with police tape covering the front porch.

“Go in,” She finally said, “It’s alright. I won’t tell anyone.”

I gulped, but obliged, and took a walk to the front door that felt like ages. I pushed the police tape aside and crawled beneath it. I looked back at Makoto, who just gave me a faint smile.

The door slid open with a loud creak, but I went in nonetheless. I turned on the lights, that flickered on softly with disuse. The place was mostly vacant, except for some dusty furniture, donned with cobwebs, and broken glass or vases adorning the floor. The architecture of this place was just a little too off. It wasn’t something you’d typically see around here.

The whole house was a singular story, with creaky floorboards sometimes contrasted by dirty carpets with old footprints on them. There were empty boxes of what once held food, sometimes little bugs scurrying about, and lightbulbs that were broken here and there. This place had obviously been abandoned for ages, but how many, exactly I was unsure.

There was one final room I had yet to investigate, which was the bedroom. I slid its door open, and was immediately greeted by the smell of old books. Besides the bed, the room had dozens of bookshelves, filled to the brim with what were mostly old novels and magazines and newspapers. The spines were falling apart, pages were on the floor, and it almost looked like a tornado hit this room. There wasn’t a visible closet.

I started to go through the books, but they were mostly just classic novels in a variety of languages. Beneath the bed there was nothing of note but more paper.

Makoto said that there would be answers here, but I found nothing. I groaned, gripped my hair, and started to scream.

“Who the hell are you?!” I yelled, “Where is my brother?!”

I kicked a bookshelf, but due to its age, weakly built nature, and the weight of all the books on it, it leaned back in retaliation due to my kick, but then tilted forward directly towards me. I yelped and jumped onto the bed in a cloud of dust, coughing and hacking. When it faded into the air, behind the bookshelf was a small, hidden door. I stepped over the collapsed bookshelf in curiosity, and pushed the small door open. It was dark, but I walked in, head hunched just a bit.

There was a dangling string. I pulled it, and a lightbulb above me turned on. There was a cardboard box in the room and nothing else. I instinctively began to go through it, and besides newspapers about Yvonne and photos of my half-brother, I found two letters addressed to “My Son”. I picked the one with the earliest date on it. It read:

_To My Only Son,_

_(November 9, 2004)_

_ One day, you will read this and know the truth. I am deeply sorry for you, and what I have done to you due to the circumstances of my life, but I figure you deserve to know the truth of it all. Whenever you find this, know that I love you, and I want what’s best for you. I don’t want to put this burden on Miss Isshiki, to take care of you, but I’m afraid she will have to. I love her very much, as she is my dearest and only friend in these wretched times, and I am aware of the strain of her cognitive psience work (which I never understood very much, to tell you the truth). But I pray she will come through as a mother to you, since she basically raised you alongside me. _

_ Let the world know that your father is a man by the name of Masayoshi Shido. He is currently a politician at the time of me writing this. He’s got a few devout followers, but he is a wicked man. Do not let him gain further power. He is the sick man who raped me at 17. You, my son, are an absolute blessing to me, and I love you more than anyone else in this world. But he is cruel, heartless, and a textbook psychopath who only does things for his own selfish gains. He abandoned me after I became pregnant, and I was threatened to keep his identity a secret, or else I would be killed. The coward I was, I listened. I am a coward for doing this to myself, too. Once again, I’m so sorry. _

_ I decided to stash this letter in our secret little closet because nobody else knows about it. I will try my best to cover it up, so hopefully you are the only one to ever read it. Just make sure you can create yourself a new identity. If you keep going on with the Hamaguchi last name, and with the way you look, people will just continue their legacy of harassing me unto you. _

_ I love you very much. Your mother is just a weak woman who has succumbed to the worst of it. Become a great person in this terrible world we have been cursed with living in. I have complete faith in you. Don’t fall for the lies you may be told, or the bad people who may try to control you. Tell the entire godforsaken world about your father’s misdeeds, and avenge me. _

The second letter was on a different type of paper, with different handwriting. It read:

_To My Son, _

_(November 11, 2004)_

_ You have driven me to do this. Understand that. _

_ I am leaving this note to you, son, to give you information you must not share with anyone. If you tell anybody, you surely will be killed. Don’t tell anyone, for my sake, if you love me. _

_ Your biological father is a man named Masayoshi Shido. He is an esteemed politician whom I seduced as a teenager with the charm I had as an aspiring idol. Your birth was caused by my recklessness, and is not because of your father. He has nothing to do with you and me, and should be left out of your future. _

_ I know the sight of this letter beside my body is probably not the most hopeful thing you could see, coming home from school. I just need you to know that this was your fault, plain and clear. You made me miserable, driving your father away from me. You were a burden, and there is no going back from this. You will live a life worse than mine, especially if you try to reconnect with Shido. Under any circumstances, don’t do that. Be smart. _

_ Thanks for nothing, you bastard child. _

_ Yvonne Hamaguchi _

Beneath the letters were pages upon pages of handwritten notes by another different handwriting, with repeated phrases such as, “Framed”, “Police broke in and found her dead first”, “Planted”, and “WHAT IS THE TRUTH?” The writer seemed to be analyzing the two contradicting letters found.

Not like it mattered anymore.

I stormed from the house and broke through the police tape, falling to my knees on the dirt pathway that had become mud. The rain picked up, and Makoto was standing at the edge with her umbrella. She rushed over to me.

“Did you find something, Futaba?”

I whimpered, clinging to her leg. She began to run her fingers through my hair.

“Yes,” I whined, crying and crying as the rain hitting my body outside the umbrella’s reach slowly got colder and colder under the harsh weather. “M-My brother…”

“Who is he, Futaba?”

I couldn’t say it. I was too broken down. To find a part of myself and in a moment’s notice just lose it.

I started thinking back to that superhero girl, with her missing friend. She never did find her friend, but she developed from that knowledge, and found new friends that replaced the hole in her heart. But me? That hole was just shot twice as big.

I hated my brother in life. My brother was annoying to me in life. My brother thought he had no one, while I was given the luxury of my own friends. My brother knew I was his half-sister. But he was so engrossed in his own history, and his own mission, to even care.

My brother killed my mother.

I watched my brother die.

I watched my brother die, and I felt the hole in my heart grow twice as big.


End file.
